we will remember

Like many kalag-kalag seasons, we did things a bit early to avoid the huge crowd of cemetery-goers on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days. On October 30, we visited the graves of family members and loved ones in Dampas, Loon, Maribojoc, and Dauis. It was a long day of traveling back and forth, and we weren’t able to make it to Serenity Park before it closed at 6PM.

I’ve always had an affinity for trips like this, especially with my mother who is a storyteller. She recalls stories with remarkable detail, particularly those from the Flores Valles and Torralba sides of the family.

One of her accounts is about a parish priest, apparently the great-grandfather of my grandmother, Mama Pila. Sometime in the early 1820s, Mount Hibok-Hibok (then called Catarman Volcano) in Camiguin erupted so massively that residents were forced to flee. Some Mambajao locals resettled in Bohol, including my soon-to-be ancestor, a woman with the family name Roldan. She settled in Dauis, where she became a cantora, or church singer. Like in many unfortunate tales, she was impregnated by a Spanish kura paroko or parish priest and bore an illegitimate son named Jose “Eping” Flores.

The priest was later reassigned to Maribojoc, bringing with him Jose, now grown up. Jose eventually became mayor of the town and was fondly known as Kapitan Eping. Their ancestral house once stood behind the Maribojoc Church, built on what was originally a small islet separated from the mainland by a narrow river flowing toward the Cebu Strait. When the priest became the town’s parish priest, locals—especially churchgoers—were tasked to haul kuta or coral stones to fill the gap, gradually linking the islet to the main coastline. My mother recalls visiting that house during town fiestas and Holy Week as a child, its cavernous living room floored with wide wooden planks and filled with religious relics.

Another story my mother told me was about a war veteran in the family, Panfilo Torralba, the youngest among my grandfather Papa Iyan’s siblings. He enlisted during World War II and, like so many others, never made it home. He died young, one of the countless Filipinos who perished during the Japanese invasion in Luzon in 1942.

His remains contained in a casket were sent back to Bohol in a separate stately aluminum box, which was kept in my grandfather Papa Iyan’s silong, the open space beneath the floor of their house in Tamblot. The box was kept for several more years in that silong even after the casket was buried. When my mother was a child, she would often see that box while playing in the area. One day, out of curiosity, she and her playmates pried it open, only to find a serpent coiled inside. That sight alone was enough to keep them away from the silong for good.

There were so many tales and fragments to take in. Some haunting, some simply human. Like many family stories, ours seems to begin with something that lingers between memory and myth. My mother said my uncles have written records and more to tell. Maybe it’s time to look into them. 

[ More photos here ]